


Consequences of Overtime

by piloting



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Confessions, Eye Trauma, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, Kinda, M/M, compelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-18 00:31:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18975322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piloting/pseuds/piloting
Summary: Jon doesn’t understand how to control his powers. He overworks himself, and realizes there are consequences. Martin worries.





	Consequences of Overtime

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on a rp my bf and I did, so it’s super cheesy with lots of drama and weird metaphors. But let me live.

Jon stumbled across the floor of the archives, clutching one hand to his skull, where the pain manifested so clearly he was near certain if he pulled his hand away it would be drenched in more than just sweat that perched atop his brow. 

He tripped. Falling into Martin’s lap was not an unpleasant surprise, but it was a surprise. And it took him a moment in order to discern the stimuli traversing his fever addled mind. Soft. Ceiling up. Dusty. Face round with ambling slopes. 

“Ah, Martin.” He squinted against the soft light that pierced his eyes. Withdrawing his hand, he spoke again. “Am I bleeding?”

Martin had missed him entering, and his journal fell to the floor when another occupant navigated into its space; it’s leather cover thumping with the sound only dead flesh can make. “Jon!” He jumped, before worriedly feeling his sweat ragged brow. He was burning up. Martin frowned. “You aren’t bleeding… But you are ill.” Tenderly, he brushed his hair back. “Come lay down in the break room.”

Jon squeezed his eyes shut, subconsciously leaning into Martin’s touch. “I have work to do, Martin,” he grumbled. Then he promptly made a fool of himself by attempting to detach himself from Martin’s warmth, long legs wobbling as he attempted to slide off his lap. Jon fell to the floor, banging his head against the desk leg. 

Martin frowned, and pushed back in his chair to allow room for Jon to stand. He did so, swaying to the hymn of feverish overwork. Martin places a hand lightly on Jon’s shoulder. “You’re ill, Jon. Work doesn’t apply right now,” he sighed, “Please rest for a smidge. Let me fix you some tea and fetch pain killers.”

These words drifted through Jon’s mind. Other pressing matters thrummed at his spirit, yet the comforting warmth of his hand on his shoulder drew him in. He dropped his head. 

Somehow, Martin managed to convince him to move to the couch in the break room, it’s stained fabric a comfort to the unfamiliarity of the thoughts pressing at his mind. Jon curled within himself. As Martin was leaving the room, he caught a closer glimpse of Jon’s eyes. That stable and soothing, yet cold, brown was now flecked with swirling reds and golds. It drew him in, telling him to trust and to give in. Martin felt words bubble up from his throat, only for a sticky feeling to block them down. 

Jon hissed in pain, squeezing his eyes shut, that kaleidoscope of stained glass firmly imprisoned, laced shut with lashes thick. “My head…”

Once more, Martin smoothed his hair back from his forehead. “I’ll fetch that tea.” He padded out of the room, but not before shutting the light off. 

Jon sighed as the darkness shut out his senses, the cool air a welcome. Eyes closed, he opened his eyes, and reached. Addled mind, he could barely recall what he was searching for in the first place, merely the faintest scent of it on his mind. A flitting, fleeing moth danced before him, and he stretched—his shape twitching and elongating for his eye to bite around that precious flicker of knowledge. But the flamed knowledge danced out of reach, and the fangs of his eye, seeking anything to bite into, retracted. 

He cried out a loud, broken sob—of frustration, of anger, of loss, of pain—as the rough, stained fabric of the couch came into being again. The Archivist ran a hand over a stain. Coffee with creamer. Tim spilling as he laughed with Sasha. Bright, bright, bright. 

Something trickled down from his eye. The world was spinning, and he was unable to tell if it was his left or his right eye. A hand was at his face. Martin. A tissue was placed to his face and wiped the not-tears away. 

The Archivist realized that he had been speaking. “-n?! Jon! What happened?!”

Jon. Yes, that was it. Names, not titles. Even in the dim light, he could see the tears threatening to cascade down Martin’s face. In a low voice, he spoke, hushed with frustration. “I had it.” He closed his eyes with an intense look of frustration. Then, he opened them, and tears gathered. “But… It’s gone.”

Martin’s brow gathered with concern. “What- what do you mean?”

“You wouldn’t understand.” Jon attempted to gather his limbs to stand, but forgot how difficult the complexity of sinews and muscles could be. He collapsed back upon the couch, guided by a strong arm. 

Martin pulled a throw blanket over Jon, and he found he had no strength to complain. “What wouldn’t I understand?” Martin made a strange face. “We work in the same spooky- ahem, strange place. I’m positive I could grasp it.”

Jon gave in, too weary to complain, and attempted to explain. The knowledge which dripped from behind that closed door was easy enough to explain. He watched his every motion, every flicker of his eyes for the telltale sign that he was disgusted—that Martin knew he was losing his humanity, that Jon had been condemned in his eyes.

Martin understood of The Beholding and its powers, but when he came to the compulsion he could place upon people, he faltered. Jon was unable to explain. Martin cocked his head. “Compulsion? I’m not sure what you mean, that last bit.”

Jon rubbed his face. “I could, er, show you.”

Martin wrung his hands, pausing. “Yes, go ahead.” Words of encouragement and trust bubbled up in his throat, once again stopped by that sticky feeling. 

The Archivist took a deep breath and asked his question, those previously stable brown eyes beginning to swirl and cascade again. “What is something you would never willingly tell me?”

He tugged the words from his chest, slipping out heavy and thick. “I’ve loved you for—almost since I’ve met you. I wished you would notice.” Martin’s emotions were so thick Jon could taste their residue on his words. Regret and relief all in one, bundled. “I- Jon- I’m so sorry. Please don’t- Please forget that.”

The Archivist’s- Jon’s stomach turned, his fevered mind barely able to comprehend what was just said beyond relishing the honey-sweet taste of knowledge washing over his occipital. “Martin… I’m so sorry.” Sorry for dragging that out into the light of knowledge. Sorry that he fell in love with a sod like him. Sorry he couldn’t be better. Jon winced in pain again. He said, in a meek voice, “May I have those pain killers now?”

Martin nodded and reached for the pills and the tea on the side table, hands shaking. He handed Jon both, careful not to touch his scarred hands. 

Jon swallowed the pills dry, then took a careful sip of the tea as an afterthought. He closed his eyes and looked over Martin, fidgeting. Opening his eyes, he said, “Sit with me, Martin?” He sat next to him, giving him ample room, rolling his extra hair tie that sat around his wrist. 

Jon leaned in a bit too close, looking up at him through his eyelashes, though not in an attempt to be seductive. Jon had nearly lost the meaning of that word. “Thank you, Martin.” For everything. Promptly, he gave him a peck on the corner of his mouth and curled up in the throw blanket, head covered, with a mumbled, “I ought to get some rest now.”

Martin froze, face burning. His countenance softened, and with warmth he smiled at the blanket covered mass. “You should… I’ll stay here while you rest, if you’d like…?” Martin chewed on his lip. 

“Please,” Jon mumbled. 

He nodded. “Then I will.” Martin placed a hand on Jon’s knee and stood watch while Jon fitfully faded into rest.

**Author's Note:**

> I probably won’t continue this, but if y’all like it I can try to write some more! Comments are greatly appreciated!


End file.
